


unpack my missteps

by timorous_scribe



Category: Glee
Genre: Cheating, F/F, Future Fic, Hotel Sex, Smut Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timorous_scribe/pseuds/timorous_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html">Glee Girls Smut Meme</a> fill to <a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/7d0e4fe83d3551524f1e2b69ca123d02/tumblr_mgya6jOdmG1rqobcbo1_500.gif">this</a> & <a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/c6940a81f85e6734dc7527f366b2dd32/tumblr_mgya6jOdmG1rqobcbo2_500.gif">this</a> gif. Future Quinntana, Quinn’s married but she can’t say no when Santana’s in town. Original prompt <a href="http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=24616#t24616">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unpack my missteps

**Author's Note:**

> That [Glee Girls Smut Meme](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html) gets in your head, man. Might very well be the best (and simultaneously worst) thing to happen to this subset of fandom in a while. ;) Enjoy!

“You know better than to call me.” 

Quinn hisses into the phone like she doesn’t know what this is, like she has some right to be _offended_ or something just because Santana’s on her phone. Yeah, so if it’s been over a year since they’ve actually spoken. Their last ‘visit’ may not have ended as well as it probably could’ve, but whatever. It’s their thing.

There’s a pause, then Santana’s voice scratches through the phone and tickles down in the same place it always does, fitting into the cracks of Quinn’s resistance. It’s some kind of spell she still hasn’t figured out, despite knowing the other woman for almost fifteen years.

“Are we playing it that way, Quinn?” Santana lets the question hang for a moment, letting Quinn ruminate over all the things implied in the words.

They haven’t been anything resembling actual friends in forever, only marginally keeping up with each other online, but _this_... this has kept up since that first time back at Schue’s not-wedding. At least once or twice a year Santana calls and Quinn somehow ends up giving into the pull, usually against her better judgment.

They’re like magnets, and really. How do they fucking work, right?

Quinn tried to tell Santana the last time that Thomas was a _good_ man, she knew she was going to marry him in two months and married women didn’t casually fuck their old high school friends. Santana had sunk back between her thighs with a noncommittal grunt and a smirk, and Quinn suddenly didn’t give a shit what married women did or did not engage in.

That was over a year ago and Quinn thought it was done, thought that since the wedding Santana would’ve somehow developed a sense of respect and let this _thing_ between them die.

Now her pounding heartbeat and the anxious knot in her belly tell her it’s very much alive, and answering Santana’s call gave it first breath. Why did she answer?

“I didn’t realize I was supposed to pretend you wouldn’t show up.”

“What?” Quinn asks dumbly, like this isn’t their routine, like she hasn’t done this same thing—had very near to this same exchange—at least ten times before.

“Hilton. Room seventy-two-fifty-seven. Now, not later.” Quinn kind of hates how confident and _calm_ Santana sounds when she says it. Like there’s no question Quinn will be there. Like she doesn’t care one way or another, anyway.

“I’m not coming, Santana.” Quinn is proud of herself, not even the tiniest waver in her voice to betray the electrical arcs sizzling in her stomach. She almost believes it. “I told you last time.”

She hangs up when Santana laughs at her.

— — —

Tapping on the door just under the plate that reads ‘7257,’ Quinn tells herself that this is something just for _her_ , that she needs it to be a good wife, to not feel crazy.

There’s a whole list of reasons she’s telling herself for why it’s okay, that it doesn’t affect how she feels about her husband, that it just _is_ , separate and hidden from everything else in her life like some twisted kind of battery due for recharge.

The door creaks open and Santana stands there in tight-fitting black slacks, a crisp white button-down tucked in smartly. Her gaze crawls up Quinn’s body deliberately before finally meeting crackling hazel.

Quinn has a list of reasons that don’t matter. What matters is she left her office as soon as she hung up, and now that she’s here she’s going to wipe that fucking smirk off Santana’s face.

There’s an ‘ _oof_ ’ of surprise from the brunette when Quinn launches at her and they stumble back into the room, Quinn crushing their mouths together in a brutal kiss. It’s wild and it’s deep but it still doesn’t completely suppress Santana’s raspy chuckle.

“Want something, Q?” She grips Quinn’s wrists in her hands, pulling them away from her hips and out to the sides as she whispers against the blonde’s lips. She knew Quinn would show, she knows it’s been a long time, and she’s positively not going to make it easy for her.

“You know what I want.” Quinn growls, nipping sharply at Santana’s full lower lip before sucking it into her mouth. She’s been thinking about this for the entire drive, memories of every other time Santana’s fucked her blending and swarming until she was drunk on anxious arousal by the time she got to the hotel.

Patience may be a virtue, but with Santana’s tongue sliding wetly against her own and her hands full of Santana’s breasts, she finds herself lacking in concern for ‘virtue.’ Quinn manages to loop a finger into the space between buttons on Santana’s tailored shirt, yanking  to one side and then the other and smiling into the kiss at the patter of buttons scattering around the carpet.

Santana doesn’t even have time to react before Quinn’s hands are shoving the material off her shoulders until it flutters to the floor, then she’s just gasping. One thing she can count on whenever they see each other—Quinn will be _hungry_. It’s sexy and it’s good for her ego, and Santana always seems to end up here in Chicago within a month of a breakup. Eerie, that coincidence.

Quinn’s licking into her mouth and against her teeth, fingers crawling into the cup of Santana’s black bra to yank at the fabric. She gives a little grunt when she succeeds in pulling it out of the way, groping handfuls of the brunette’s tit before pinching and twisting at her nipple, making Santana whimper into her mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , Quinn.” It’s a gasp at the hot silkiness as the blonde bends to replace her hand with her mouth, and she drags her fingernails across Quinn’s scalp in response. Santana can’t seem to think long enough to remember who was supposed to be in control here, but she’s been wet since she called and Quinn’s still hot as fuck, so it doesn’t really matter.

Quinn’s nails are digging into her lower back and Santana’s bowing her spine to push her tits harder into her face when she loses her balance. She catches it again within a few steps, then pulls a dazed looking Quinn with her the rest of the way to the bed. Forget this on their feet noise.

Santana falls back a little unsteadily next to the pillows and isn’t even fully settled before Quinn is climbing over her lap on her knees, skirt riding up her thighs as her hands come up to hold Santana’s cheeks. Quinn just _wants_ so badly, every time, she can’t seem to keep this from feeling like exactly what she won’t let herself miss.

“What is it about you...” She whispers the words while staring deeply into the darkness of Santana’s eyes, her thumbs stroking over Santana’s nose, lips, cheekbones. Their breath mixes in the brief space between their lips and everything slows for a moment while they pant in the quiet, Quinn searching the other woman’s eyes.

There’s a twinkle of recognition before a sexy smile curls her lips and she traces the tip of her nose against the brunette’s. The way Santana looks at her makes Quinn feel sensual, like seduction is in her nature and not the clumsy recreation it feels like.

When Santana lifts her chin to take a kiss, Quinn licks at her upper lip and dodges just out of the way, only to repeat the move on the other side. The orgasms are amazing, of course, but _this_ is what Quinn can’t resist—the feel of Santana’s fingers digging into her hips, the dark promise in the way she stares, the way she _desires._

Santana curls her hands under the hem of Quinn’s top and pushes at the material, flattening her palms up the planes of the blonde’s abdomen. It’s all smooth warm skin and her fingers twitch to touch more, but she stops short of Quinn’s bra. She arches her eyebrow and in the half-second the move pauses the blonde, lunges up for another kiss.

Quinn moans into it, her hips jerking uselessly against the taut barrier created by her skirt. She leans back just enough to separate their mouths, staring down at Santana as the brunette traces shapes with her fingertips on pale inner thighs, dark eyes trained on her like she’s prey.

The thought shoots fire to her core and Quinn grabs for her top, lifting a little on her knees to balance herself as she pulls it over her head. She needs to be naked like, _now_ and feel the slide of Santana’s body against hers. There’s a tickle at the leg of her panties just as the blouse drops from her fingertips and her gaze comes back to Santana’s sultry grin.

The next instant she’s choking a cry, curling forward to clutch at Santana’s back and catch herself from falling as the brunette’s fingers slip past her underwear and deep inside her without warning.

“ _God_ , yes..” It’s dragged out of Quinn, sandpaper grating as her hips twist down to take Santana deeper. The angle is weird with the skirt but neither of them really cares, it doesn’t matter as long as they’re able to make contact. The first round is always hurried and over quickly, anyway, the build-up too great to take it slow. Besides, check out isn’t until 11 so they’ll get a round two—and beyond, if previous experience is any indicator.

Santana uses her other arm to pull Quinn tighter into her body, tugging her hips into each thrust and licking her way across Quinn’s tits while they bounce in the cups of her bra. There’s a feeling like coming home, coming back to Q all these times through the years. It’s jolting to Santana to realize that the familiarity of the flavor on her tongue is actually making her wetter.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Q,” She growls, biting into the swell of a breast while her thumb slides around in circles through hot slickness, making Quinn’s hips chase the contact she wants. “How bad d’you want this, huh?” The question is panted into Quinn’s cleavage while Santana continues pumping her arm. “All tight around my fingers, fucking yourself on my hand, all those little sounds you make....”

Quinn’s nails dig into Santana’s back to hold on, dragging a little from the force of the brunette’s thrusts. Her other hand tangles into the hair at the back of Santana’s head, tightening a fist and using it to push their mouths back together. Santana sucks Quinn’s tongue into her mouth and pulls on it time with her presses inside, and all Quinn can do is whine and rock her hips against the motion.

Santana bites into the softness of Quinn’s throat, licking at the sting when the blonde whimpers and shudders her body against Santana’s.

“I hear them in my head when I touch myself.”

Quinn throws her head back at that, her hand coming down to grip at Santana’s elbow and push while she squeezes her thighs around the other woman. God, the thought of Santana touching herself—moaning Quinn’s name while she comes—has her walls clutching at the brunette’s fingers.

Quinn would be lying if she tried to say she didn’t think about Santana the few times she’d done _that_. She’s ashamed that she’s thought of Santana exactly like this—more than once—when Thomas couldn’t finish her. Quinn comforts herself that at least she doesn’t fake, since that would be dishonest.

“But my _favorite_ ,” Santana emphasizes her words with the motion of her hands. “Wanna hear what I Iike _best_ , Quinn?”

Quinn nods, her lip between her teeth, eyes clenched closed and forehead pressed to Santana’s. She’s so close, and she knows Santana’s dirty words will push her there, the woman is deliciously filthy.

“Whether it’s on my _fingers_ ,” Santana slides in another finger with the rasp, “or in my _mouth_ ,” Quinn’s walls are tightening down and Santana is sweating with the effort of pushing past the resistance, the muscles of her back rippling under Quinn’s hand.

“My _favorite_ , Quinn,” she noses into Quinn’s chin until she can kiss her deeply, tongue twisting with the other woman’s and whimpering at the contact.

“Is when you _come_ for me.” Her thumb presses down, sweeping side to side over the swollen knot as she doubles her speed. “Like you’re gonna do right now... aren’t you, Q?” The blonde is all but bouncing on the penetrating digits, obscene wet noises with every thrust coming from between her legs that should shame her but instead just make her more delirious.

“Gonna let go and come all over my hand, then you’re gonna lay back and I’m gonna eat you out ‘til you do it again.” Santana feels pretty goddamn delirious herself, she’s so wet she might have to throw out these slacks and she’s been pumping her pelvis behind her own hand, desperate for _some_ kind of contact.

She’s _so_ flipping around in a minute and sitting on Quinn’s face while she eats her out. The thought pushes a grunt from Santana’s chest and she pulls at the cup of Quinn’s bra until she can capture a nipple between her teeth.

Quinn’s back stiffens at at the acute sensation and Santana sucks the tight bud into her mouth, maintaining the pounding rhythm with her arm. There’s one sharp cry before Quinn is shuddering and pulling at Santana’s hair, a stuttering kind of moan panted into the brunette’s shoulder as she jerks against the pleasure.

The room is quiet but for their panting, the scent of sex thick and heady around them. Santana pulls her hand back with a squishy noise that sends a fresh flush to Quinn’s cheeks, smirking up at the blonde at the sight.

“How long do we have?” She whispers, sliding her hands up Quinn’s thighs over the skirt and  around her hips to the zipper at the back of the garment. Quinn sighs, twisting her fingers in dark locks and leaning forward to suck on Santana’s lower lip before answering.

“I need to be home by seven-thirty.” Quinn’s voice is quiet, the shame and guilt beginning to creep in now that her lust is calming.

Santana grins, rolling them over until Quinn is on her back with Santana’s hips cradled between her thighs. She props herself on her hands and smiles down at the blonde, twitching her hips against Quinn’s center. She tugs at the skirt until she has to move back to remove it, then, unable to resist, she leans in and drags her tongue over the soaked center of Quinn’s panties.

Quinn’s hips lift against her face immediately, a soft gasp filtering down to settle in Santana’s ears and remind her of the beating pulse between her legs.

“Plenty of time.” Santana whispers, curling her fingertips into Quinn’s waistband and pulling.


End file.
